Lībertus
by Negare
Summary: Mirrorverse. The criminal from "Make Tracks", Paulie Getty finds himself free of one prision and smack back in the middle of an incarceration so much more horrendous and frightening. Aged or not, he can't rest, and won't be able to for a long time.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Me no owny Transformers, Hasbro et cetera does. **

**I always liked those criminals in "Make Tracks" so I figured I'd write a MV about them.**

**Lībertus**

(Freedman)

**Chapter One**

Monday, 21st April, 1986.

"And can you tell us what happened after you saw the defendant take Mr. Trent's wallet?"

"He shot him".

"Where did he shoot him? How many times? Did he say anything? Can you give anything else?"

"He shot him multiple times, at first just in the face. Mr. Trent was begging for his life, he was on his knees, literally screaming at the defendant".

"Could you hear what he was screaming?"

"Yeah, he was saying shit like "I gave the money to your guy" and "Please, I can get more, give me another chance" and stuff like that… but Mr. Gettys was like "We don't give second chances, you could have paid up, but you didn't, you've had plenty of chances, plenty of times" and something else along those lines. Then he just shot the guy in the face, his brains and stuff blew out everywhere. Then he shot him in the belly and chest and stuff, I dunno, it was just so loud I ducked down behind the bins after that, but I'm pretty sure he reloaded, cos I counted 12 shots, then there was this pause and then another 12 shots – I'm pretty sure the kind of gun he had only has 12 shots in it".

"And was the victim dead at that point?"

"Well, I guess so. The head shot probably done him in, I mean, I ain't fucking seen anyone survive having their brains blown out the back of their skull… well, maybe someone can survive that, but you'd be all drooling and vegetable and stuff. But if that didn't finish him off the 33 shots into his body probably did".

"So what did you do during this time that this innocent man was being blasted to bits in a back alley?"

"Are you kidding? I was hiding behind the bins. Mr. Gettys's didn't know I was there, and the last thing I needed was him knowing there was a witness to him blowing the brains out of that guy".

"So how can we be sure who you saw shooting the victim was indeed Paulie Gettys?"

"Well, like I said before, I saw Mr. Gettys and the victim go into the alley, and there was only one way into that alley, and so they went in, shots were fired, and only Gettys came out".

"No further questions, your honour".

"Would defence counsel like to cross?"

"Yes, your honour. Just a couple of questions, Mr. – what were you doing sulking about an alley way at that time of evening, and have you met either my client or his brother, Sammy Gettys?"

"Ah…"

"Need I remind you, Mr. You are under oath".

"I've met the Gettys's brothers before. I hit some money troubles and they helped me out, only they wanted me to steal them some cars as payback. I was at that alley because I knew Paulie Gettys went to that bar and I thought I could talk to him about letting me pay him back later – apparently Paulie was known as the reasonable brother! But when I saw him approach the victim and they started talking, and it started looking heated I just followed. I thought if the guy took off I could catch him and the Gettys's would be owing me, ya know?"

"So you're willingly admitting to the fact you would have helped kill a man?"

"NO! Of course not! Its not like that man!"

"Your honour, he's badgering the witness".

"Stick to the facts at hand counsel, its Mr. Paul Gettys who's on trial, not the witness".

"With all due respect you're honour, such questioning goes to the credibility of the witness, a young man convicted of theft, drug dealing and of associating with known criminal elements".

"Your objection to my ruling is noted, but my judgement still stands in regards. And I want to remind everyone just how high profile this case is becoming – and this comment goes out to the media as well. I will not tolerate shenanigans in my courtroom. Now, can we continue or do I have to order a recess?"

--

Wednesday, 7th May, 1986

0930hrs

"Mr. Gettys, you were found guilty of the numerous charges against you by a jury of your peers on Thursday the 1st of May 1986 and I have considered the severity of the crime, and in particular your impact on the youth culture of this great city, New York. However, I do believe that to send you to your death would make you a martyr in some circles and such hooligans could launch reprisal attacks. Subsequently, I do believe, in the absence of the victim's family, and concurrent impact statements that to sentence you such an end would not serve any unfortunate surviving next of kin to the victim. As such, I believe the sentence of life imprisonment, with a non parole period of 20 years will be sufficient to deter any fans of yours, to give you time to think over your life and so if you do find yourself with a release date, your age will prohibit you engaging in any further criminal mandate. I also hope this will serve as a warning to your brother, who is awaiting trial on minor charges and may escape jail time. This court is now adjourned".


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Friday, 9th May, 1986

_But I'm stolen away,_

"Sorry about the rush round here, we're always busy on a Friday. The cops and courts are trying to dump all their crims our way so they can make room in their cells for the weekend intake".

_Slowly learning that life's okay,_

"But yeah, since we heard you were coming in, everyone's been a little excited. You're quite a celebrity, Mr. Gettys. I was reading the trial transcripts, as much as I think you deserve to be here, that little punk kid who ratted you out, wow, what a total fucker".

_Say after me,_

"We giving you the star treatment, Mr. Gettys. Well, what counts as star treatment around here? Basically you get your own cell – your lawyer worked that one out. Can't have anyone taking a shot at you… well, a shiv… wooo-eeee we had some guy take a sharpened chess piece to the jugular the other day".

_Its better to be safe then sorry._

"Okay, so here's the unpleasant part, you have to take off all your clothes, put them in this bag. Any money or valuables, into this box, shoes et cetera into this bag. Then go stand by that table and the… ah… _doctor _will be in to examine you in a moment… ooh I like this part of the song".

_Take on me._

_Take me on._

_I'll be gone, _

_In a day or two…_

"After the examination, you'll be given prison issue clothing, some blankets and a few other bits and bobs – mostly toothpaste, soap the usual personals. Then you will be shown to your cell where you will settle in. The populace is separated into four groups so remember what group you're in because they stagger the meals. Then you'll be shown around the places you need to know. Have lunch, then you'll spend some more time in your cell and then that's that".

_So needless to say…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**The day of Robots**

The metal bars split the sunlight into shards as it forced its way into the small cell. Paulie sat on his bed, his back against the wall, the flimsy woollen blanket bunched over his feet. The cells heated up in the early morning, probably didn't help with so many men in this concrete dungeon, their sweaty selves adding temperature to this miserable place. It was just past 6 and in about half an hour the alarm would sound and they'd start their day. Living the same routine once again, the same as yesterday, and would be the same tomorrow, and the same the day after that, and so on and so fourth until he'd die in this shit hole.

Paulie got out of his bed, balling his hands into fists and placing them into the small of his back while he arched upwards, his aged vertebrae creaking. He began his routine, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, combed his hair, washed his face in the sink, brushed his teeth, pulled on his prison issue over alls, sat back on his bed and waited for the door to open so he could go have the same breakfast he had every morning, and would continue to have until he died. At 0700 the cell door opened and he stepped out.

He sat in the same seat at the same table looking down at the same breakfast. Scrambled eggs made from that powdered crap, some kind of meat product that was bacon flavoured and two pieces of white toast and a cup of very weak, luke warm coffee. This was his life, and this would be his life for probably the rest of his life. He had come up for parole not so long ago but the board had denied his request, citing that in all likelihood he'd return to the life of crime. His brother's lawyer had gotten Sammy out on a technicality, and as soon as Sammy was back on the street he was back to his old habits and the cops hadn't been able to locate him. So, Paulie was stuck in here, probably until his grave. He'd lost a lot of his influence; over 20 years in this place would do that. Today's criminals were of a different class, most of them didn't' even have class. The 80s had its fair share of drugged up crims, but the drugs used then paled to what was on offer now. Most new fish would come in high on Meth, the detox from which was rather nasty. The offences committed by these addicts were oftentimes brutal and really carried no motive. In Paulie's day, if you killed someone it was usually for a good reason – they didn't pay you on time, they stole from you, they killed a friend of yours, they disrespected you or they ratted you out to the cops.

Most of his cohorts had died in here or had been paroled. He had really no one now, sitting there pushing the unnaturally coloured limp chunks around his plate he contemplated how lonely his life was. At least he was considered too old and unattractive, or worthwhile, for others to take shots at him. No one had dared thought to touch him in his more powerful days – in the 80s he was so respected here, he could have what he wanted when he wanted, and anything he wanted could usually be smuggled in. The guards would owe him big time for things he could organise to be done on the outside for them, they wouldn't touch him and they'd look the other way on a lot of things. But now those guards had moved on, some dead, others retired, others just moving on to other things. The guards now showed him little concern or fear, and they just did their jobs, not at all like the corrupt guards of old. There'd been a few warden changes over his 20 plus years, and time had changed their profession as well. The wardens of old were corrupt and arrogant, but now, with so much transparency in public life and the absolute shit storm that could transpire if something was found, wardens were now honest, hardworking individuals who paid attention to the media and didn't ignore the all important fact that they and the prisons they oversaw were watched by politicians and more importantly – the public.

He sighed and took a fork full of the cold scrambled powdered eggs. On his right sat Rodney Denson a now 72 year old man who murdered his wife and three children when he won big in a casino and didn't want to share. A completely selfish and cruel man, he may have shuffled a long at a slower pace, his hair may have greyed and fallen away, his hips may have both been replaced and he may have been hard of hearing, but he was a still a truly unlikeable bastard who wasn't sorry for his crime, but only sorry that he didn't think the crime through so he wouldn't get caught. To his left was Maurice Winchester, a completely foul 78 year old who was so racist even the skin heads were a tad uncomfortable with his ramblings. Winchester wasn't his real name, but the authorities had never been able to find his original. He'd been responsible for the vicious rapes of over 100 black women. How he could justify touching black women in such an intimate manner when he held them with such low regard. It did surprise Gettys that in an age of segregation and legislated racism that a man who non-fatally attacked 100 black women would get such a harsh punishment. Across from Gettys sat Chuck Arnott, a 68 year old responsible for millions of dollars of share holders' money being fritted away on his own wants. Arnott was the vice-president of a rather large company that produced computer technology for weapons systems – they provided their creations to the government and during the height of the cold war made a good portion of money. Ordinarily such a crime wouldn't carry such a long sentence; it was the murder of the accountant that discovered his cooking of the books that put him in for life. The last crook at their section of the table sat on the right of Arnott, a 70 year old paedophile named Alexander Onlee, he was a dirty old man who'd done some dirty things, but if there was one thing prison had taught Paulie Gettys, it was not judging those around him. In his first 10 years Onlee was raped constantly by other inmates, they often took aim at the child killers and paedophiles, an honour among thieves, as such. They had tired of the old man now so ignored him.

These were his companions.

This was his routine.

This was his life.

His miserable, empty life. No hope. No escape. Nothing but waiting to die in this concrete and steel hell.

His table mates were conversing about something, a news event that had just started to trickle into the prison grapevine. Onlee did what Onlee did and steered the conversation towards paedophilia, Winchester made a comment about inbreeds followed with his usual spouts of racism and Gettys tuned out, his plate now clear of egg. These were the freaks he associated with, probably didn't help his chances of parole if he was known to keep their company. He got up, taking his empty tray to the kitchen window and handed it over to the washer. He was a large black man, covered with tattoos and who had a habit of staring straight into your eyes when you approached him. Gettys's routine would now take him out into the shower block to clean the tiles, his current chore. It was the only change in his routine – what chore he'd find himself with each year. He'd been here long enough now that he'd done every job in this place. The cleaning of the showers and toilets were considered the foulest of jobs.

He was given his bucket and mop by the guard and he started his job. It was especially messy today, someone had been assaulted, their blood smeared on the walls and splattered up on the ceiling. A pool of blood was sitting around the drain and it spread out in the gaps between the tiles. He snapped on some gloves and got to work.

He knew that his chore cleaning the showers took two hours, and he started his job at 0730 so he knew that it would now be about 0930. The guard walked behind him until they arrived at the usual place where the buckets and mops were kept under lock and key. Gettys stashed the equipment and stepped back to face the surly looking guard.

"Come on, Gettys, hurry the hell up, I don't got all day!"

Gettys wasn't sure of the guard's name, he certainly didn't care to know, this one in particular was a rather mean bastard. But he did his job correctly and with an air of professionalism. The aging crim sighed and walked into the corridor to head to his next routinely organised activity for the day. Reading time in the library.

The library had started as a small dingy cupboard with a few old magazines and the occasional Reader's Digest collection. Over the years, with pressure from the outside hippies and liberals, more money had been pumped into the system for "rehabilitation". The library was now a large two level structure, books of all assortments on the bottom and classrooms, computers and other technology on the second. Gettys sat in a comfy chair and began reading a book about ancient Greek architecture, 20 years ago he wouldn't' have bothered with such a waste of his time, reading! Bah! It was something geeks with glasses did. Of course, over 20 years later, in his late 60s, he had nothing but time.

As clichéd as that was, things were about to change.

Gettys ignored the guards suddenly start rushing out of the library. They would often hear an alarm or order over the small speaker in their ears, some inmate was just up to shenanigans and several guards were leaving their posts to go assist. The library was only allowed for inmates who were behaving themselves or simply too old to bother causing a riot, so having a few less guards on duty in the quiet building wasn't a big worry.

After a few minutes there was loud whispers amongst a few of the younger inmates who were standing by the check out desk. Others joined their conversation. The guard closest to Gettys walked over, tapping his weapon and said something to the man who appeared to be the instigator. His expression suddenly changed from one of mild annoyance and authority to one of surprise and a need to know for sure. He said something into his radio and he was off out the door. Two of the group he'd just been talking to followed him. There were only three other guards in the library and two of them disappeared quickly after receiving some message over their portables. The last remaining guard looked unsure and a little nervous, but the prisoners seemed to be more concerned with the sudden conversational topic then what their captors were up too. Gettys still didn't take any real interest, though it was an irritant. If a few prisoners were rioting it would mean his safe routine would be altered, he'd end up spending more time in his cells, food quality would drop and things would be a nuisance to re-start once the antics had been quelled.

The alarm suddenly started howling through the entire facility. A male voice came over the loud speaker.

"Inmates, return to your cells. Do not loiter. Obey the instructions of guards. Return to your cells".

Standing he put the book on his chair and started heading to his cell. Yip, definitely a damn riot of some description. Must have been a big one, he thought as usually only the section where the action was would be shut down, so for the whole prison to be going into lock down, must have been one hell of a rumble. He walked down the corridor towards the level where his cell was watching as guards were running along the building. As he walked past a window he could look out and see the guards in the tower and on the walls and they looked really spooked. They were readying their weapons and talking into their radios. Whatever it was that was going on, it was certainly something big and certainly something that was causing a mess to their routine. Well, as much as he liked his routine, he wasn't adverse to some excitement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

While Paulie didn't mind much the occasional change in routine, but it did bother him that not only did lunch not occur, dinner didn't either. Lock downs in the past had resulted in no meals in the mess; they were bought to their cells and slid under the doors. But there had been no food, no information, no guards. The prison alarm had shut down around 1300 hours when the entire power system shut down and the jail was plunged into darkness in its inner cells. Paulie was somewhat lucky; his cell faced outwards and so got natural light shining in during various times of the day. Other cells had their windows facing into the yard or facing against other buildings and so without lighting they were pitch black, even in the middle of the day.

As sad as it was, food was the highlight of the day, and the guards knew that, and wouldn't intentionally postpone feeding time. Whatever was going on, it was big. Gettys looked out his window but was unable to see anything, the night sky was becoming oppressive and the nearest city was towards the sunset, but the jail was placed too far from the urban centre to see it without binoculars. There wasn't any real sound of rioting, no gun shots, nothing to indicate an internal dispute of some sort. The only noise at this point were the calls and profanities yelled out by the other inmates, but even the loudest and the roughest realised quickly they weren't going to be answered. Gettys lay down on his bed and decided to get some sleep, it certainly did hammer it home just how much he'd aged and how the body would slow down when he wasn't eating. As a younger man he'd be able to have lasted a few days without a decent meal, but now… he'd lost a lot of weight in prison. Between the sparse junk food he used to feast on and his spare time being used up by gym equipment he dropped the kilos very quickly. Ironically his brother had packed on the pounds, taking over the family business as it were, when he sat rotting in prison, Sammy sat on his arse eating doughnuts and avoiding the cops. Hopefully when he woke in the morning, he could get back to routine.

When he did wake, he found routine was still not re-established. Other inmates were now no longer swearing loudly but begging for someone to come let them out. There was no breakfast slid under his door. There was nothing that he could see outside his window which would indicate what was going on. But there was something that struck him as odd. In the distance, where the city was, he could see a smear of grey across the morning sky. It was smoke.

"I see smoke by the city!"

He yelled out. Of course, he had no way of knowing if it was near the city, in the city or if it was just a farmer burning some dried foliage. Other inmates who had cells on that side of the building looked out their windows and soon their voices were joining in the chorus yelling out that it was indeed smoke. Someone yelled something about Al Quaeda and that's when vocally all hell broke loose. Men began banging against their doors, walls, and windows. Realistically there was no way out, and Gettys realised that their sudden rise in activity was from fear of dying of starvation in their cells then any real fear from terrorism. Gettys decided no point in hollowing and wasting his precious reserves. He took a mouth full of water in from his sink, which was still working. As he took a second sip he remembered a small stash of chocolate bars he'd hidden under his mattress. While there were often surprise searches, the warden and guards didn't really care about chocolate bars and certainly didn't view him as dangerous any more. Maybe 15 years ago they would have taken the sweets thinking they had something smuggled in them, but now, they were simply ignored. Gettys hadn't lasted as long as he had, inside or out, by wasting his resources, so he decided to wait another day before he'd take a nibble. He lay back on his bed and hoped to sleep at least through till night. Surely if something had happened then they'd find out about it some time today. Otherwise he was going to need those chocolate bars, if only to strike up the energy to think of a way out of this hole. He'd spent over 20 years in this hole, and most of that he'd spent trying to find a way out. And he wouldn't be the first to fail attempts to figure a way out, so after over 20 years it was unlikely he was going to have an epiphanies in such a short time. Of course, maybe the lack of food would be motivation enough.

As it was Gettys didn't need to think of a way out. At 14 past 3 in the afternoon a small convoy of cars arrived. A police car led the procession, behind it was a porshe and a car Gettys couldn't identify at this distance, but it was yellow. The three of them were obviously well cared for. They pulled up in front of the prison and just parked there. One of the other inmates yelled out that a pig had arrived; it was that comment that woke Gettys.

Gettys wasn't sure what the hell to think when he watched the three cars unfold, sheets of metal moved and lifted, steel jutting appendages shunted until finally instead of three cars, there were three humanoid robots. Inmates who could see started yelling out all sorts of profanities and exclamations. Those who couldn't see were demanding explanations. Gettys just stood there and waited to see what was going to happen. Were these things here to execute them all? One had been a cop car. Perhaps the government had been overthrown and the new rulers didn't' like cons… nah, that couldn't be right! Gettys just watched, trying not to think up any more crazy stories, certain that whatever these creatures were and what they were here to do, he'd find out eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

The sun had started to go down behind the dusty hue of the day which would be remembered by human history as the most tragic. Gettys walked behind a younger punk, he couldn't recall his name, but he was in for shooting his girlfriend and three of her friends for some reason. He didn't dare look behind himself to see who followed, as someone a few people ahead of him did that and was blasted to dust by the yellow robot.

They had "transformed" and one of them had blasted a hole in the wall. The police car announced that they were being released only to be consigned to work camps for the benefit of the Autobot Empire which had now taken possession of the United States of America, and if they wanted to continue their function cycles they'd best obey instructions. They were then marched single filed towards an unknown destination. After an hour of marching, one of them transformed into the police car and drove off, leaving the other two to "baby sit" as the yellow one had grumbled, adding something about how this filthy planet was fouling up his finish and that these miserable creatures were incredibly messy to dispose of. Gettys appreciated the irony, he'd been locked up in prison for over 20 years, trying for parole for the last few, and now that he was finally outside the steel reinforced concrete walls, he was still a prisoner. And chances were, he was probably in a worse situation.

As they walked to what could very well be their death, other humans were herded into the long miserable column. Gettys noticed there weren't a lot of children, elderly, obese, women or sickly. The line was made of men who were fit and healthy. While he himself seemed to be one of the oldest, well, in those he could see, he was still in shape. Not much to do in prison but work out or read, maybe that's why he was still alive. Anyone with half a brain could figure out what had happened to the women, sick, obese, elderly… of course, they could be somewhere else, they could be the ones working – the men being believed by these creatures to be the biggest risk to their occupation so they were now being led to die. Of course, if they wanted them dead, why march them somewhere to do it? There were a raft of questions floating through the now ex-con's mind. He wondered how far this thing had spread, how much of America these robots had taken? Was the rest of the world standing by, frightened? Were they being decimated? Had they been decimated? What were the plans of these metallic beasts? Was his brother still alive? His family members? He didn't have a lot of contact with his family. His father had died when he was 15, shot by a rival family gang. His mother went to work in a diner and so had little time for her teenaged sons who she left to care for their four other siblings. Three sisters and another brother, all younger. The girls 12, 7 and 3 and the younger brother was 5. They of course had grown up now, having families and responsibilities of their own. All of them managing to avoid the criminal life they had been born into. Last Paulie had heard the eldest girl was just welcoming her second grandchild, or was it 3rd? The second girl was living abroad with a partner – Paulie was unsure if she had married the guy, or if she had moved on from him. The youngest girl had completely fallen off the map of his span and he knew absolutely nothing about her or what she was doing. His youngest brother had become a priest and was up in Alaska somewhere. He occasionally wrote letters to Paulie talking about how God would forgive him and how his life would improve if only he would rediscover his faith, the usual religious talk. Paulie now just dumped the letters in the trash when he got them. He certainly had fallen away from his roots. He had very little contact with Sammy, primarily because the prison system would censor his mail.

If these creatures had really done a number on America like they claimed and like what he was walking through, chances are those relatives were either walking in similar marches, in work camps or dead. Of course, could these creatures be organised enough to have established camps already? He was sure he'd discover that soon. Gettys was aware of a pang of discomfort in his left leg, he shrugged it off and worked hard to avoid being seen to be limping, he didn't think those things would want defected "soft" ware. Question in his mind now was what they really wanted? Were humans really that much of a blob on the universe that some super advanced alien robot wanted to slaughter them all? Perhaps these machines weren't even alien, maybe they were from another part of the planet, another country that had been building them in secret, maybe they were simply exo-suits. He'd been in prison a long time and sure technology had come along in leaps in bounds. He remember in the 80s when he was first offered a cell phone, it was a huge block of a thing with a battery that was so big it had to be carried in a suit case. The range was crap and it didn't last very long. Now phones could play video, music, take photos, were so small you could loose one in your pocket!

Perhaps they were of human origin.

He looked up from his place in the line as he realised they were coming to a halt. He had no idea how long they'd been marching or where they were. The sky was now pitch black, the moon, stars, they were not visible. The only light sources came from the fires they past and torch like appendages the creatures carried.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Up ahead he could see more of those damn creatures. They stood around large chain link fences that created multiple segments. The yellow one led his throng of humans into a small section. It took ten minutes for the entire line of humans to be packed in. The robot shut the heavy gate and locked it with something before wandering over to join his co-horts. Gettys for the first time was able to look around without fear of being blasted to dust. He couldn't see any of his usual companions from the prison, the young punk he'd spent so long trasping behind was gone out of his field of vision.

"What'd you do?"

Someone said clearly, so clearly they had to be speaking to him.

He turned to look about and saw a young teenaged boy. He was probably the youngest he'd seen so far. Gettys took the time to notice that there were only men in the section, perhaps there were other demographics of society in segments he couldn't view in the dim and dirt ridden light.

"Well?"

The teen asked again, impatiently. Gettys had to take a moment to realise that he was wearing his prison jump suit so obviously it stuck out like a sore thumb and that people would know he was a con.

"Murder. Extortion. And other criminal activities which you would not know what their names mean".

He said rather irritably.

"Who'd you murder? Yo momma?"

The kid seemed to think he was something special ragging on the aged mobster. Gettys noticed a few other youngsters older then the boy, had come out of the crowd and were laughing, joking at his expense.

"I killed a man who laughed at me".

He said, amazed at how dead serious his voice came across. The kids quietened down somewhat, the young teen shrugged and they merged back into the crowd. Gettys was then pretty much left alone after that, surrounded by strangers all sharing one common denominator, those damn creatures enslaving them… or waiting to slaughter them.

There wasn't a lot of room to move about amongst the others. They were all confused and conversing amongst their closest neighbours in regards to what was happening, what was going to happen, what those things were, what those things were going to do, what those things wanted, where they had come from? The same questions Gettys had contemplated on his long and tiring march over here. The pain in his leg returned and he felt the need to sit down, he was somewhat exhausted but there was standing room only. The other convicts had combined so well into the crowd that he could no longer see them. He pushed through the multitudes until he made it to the fence. He reached out and was about to touch the fence when someone interrupted him.

"As much as I believe in the death penalty, I don't suggest you touch that fence".

Gettys turned to face the man speaking.

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Its electrified. You probably can't see that far, gramps, but that guy in the neighbouring cage, hanging off the fence, he ain't resting his legs…"

Gettys turned and managed to see a man hanging limping from the fence, his fingers linked through the wires. It took Gettys a few moments to realise he was dead, maybe not right away, but all in all, his life wasn't going to end well. Looking around at the faces of those around him, Gettys concluded what he was thinking was probably being shared by everyone else. Someone next to him was sobbing slightly, there were another two men holding each other, either they were related or queers he thought cruelly. Others were in smaller groups talking quietly amongst themselves.

"Hey, con?"

It was the man who warned him about the fence.

"What?"

He replied rudely, not interested in being bothered by anyone.

"Couple of my… acquaintances want to try and make a run for it. Sure, they'll take us out no worries if they catch us, but realistically, we're too small, they can't get us all. This could be your only chance, old man".

"You mean it could be your only chance, get the old guy to be in your group, thinking I'll be the one they catch up with, right?"

"See your faculties are still working… well, you want in or not?"

"How do you expect to get out of the cage? They don't seem like the type who would care if you told them someone who was sick and needed help from them…"

It sounded better in his head. Gettys looked at the other who was busy eyeing him up and down to try and discern if the criminal was worth confiding in.

"You think this cage was here last night? Or the night before they attacked? Its shoddily constructed, we found a gap under the fence on the other side – away from those bastards. We've been having a dig at it for a few hours and thankfully haven't been noticed. Of course, its only big enough for one guy at a time to squeeze under. But if just one of us makes it away from here that's one less notch those shit machines have to dig into their belts… or whatever".

He had a California style accent… or the accent he remembered originating from that region of the country. If the accent hadn't given his origin away his waist length dread locks, shaggy boardie shorts and tied dyed T would have. It was so clichéd it just wasn't funny.

One thing Gettys had learnt in his life as a crim, was when an opportunity presented itself you took it. Sure, there could be causalities, friends, acquaintances, lackeys could get nailed… but that was the reality of the life he'd chosen. Here was an instance where he could live, or escape to live long enough not to die in this place. It was an opportunity, as grim as it was, it could be his only chance. The crim nodded and the Californian acknowledged that by turning and leading him through the masses towards what could be life or death under the wire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It kinda worked out okay.

The part where he knelt down in the urine soaked dirt and began to squeeze under the wire. Just as he was half way through the hole some loud mouth noticed and quite loudly proclaimed "Hey, that guy found a way out". Obviously no one had pointed out to the schleb that those robot things had pretty decent hearing.

The second part directly following the part where he thought he might at least get through the hole okay involved his zipper getting caught on some over zealous plant root and then multiple people trying to either push or pull him through so they could share in his liberation. Unfortunately for them, the third part of his escape attempt resulted in the cage door being flung open, death being blasted down upon them, and a mad rush of human life against the fence to try and put as much distance between them and the walking tower of metallic death. Thankfully, the sudden influx of bodies against the fencing wire caused the electricity to be directed away from him, he felt a mild buzz in the back of his thigh as he finally managed to wriggle free. He turned and noted the stench of the burning carcasses; he then noticed the teen that'd laughed at him. He was bunched up against the fence, the electrical flames having not completely consumed him yet. Gettys' even sure if the brat was still alive, when the volts and flames tore through his eye sockets and every strand of hair on his body ignited the crim figured if he hadn't been, he definitely was now.

The crook didn't give much consideration to those still dying instead his point of focus was on the machines marching around the edge of the cage and coming towards him. The heavy set man pivoted and noticed the others in his group of escapees were almost at a small section of not yet decimated forest. Again his old habits returned to him, running in groups was a good way of grabbing the wrong kind of attention. He noted a group of the machines veer towards the scrambling bags of flesh, a few made it to the cover of the plant life – the rest didn't. One of them, in possession of a flamethrower ended the lives of those in the woodland area and every other living creature amongst the trees. Getty noticed he hadn't been noticed. He carefully slinked along the mucky fencing, hoping their smouldering bodies would offer at least some protection until he was able to make a break for it. Suddenly a huge crashing sound and the yells and shouts of his kin rung out into the air about him, the mass of bodies against the system had shorted out the generator and those inside were able to push the fencing walls over, hundreds of humans were now taking off in every direction. The robots' frustration was evident as they started firing randomly at the groups of the terrified animals. Gettys' definitely saw this as an opportunity. There were so many people; however, he noticed a lot of them were running in the direction away from his. He gave a quick thought as to whether they knew something he didn't or perhaps it was just the way they were more easily orientated too. The machines screamed out words that could only be profane and continued their mass slaughter. Obviously they were of the mindset that better dead humans then free humans.

Gettys didn't accept it as luck, convenience or robotic incompetence when he soon noticed he was running alone surrounded by relative silence. The occasional bang erupted from far behind him with flashes of light. Obviously one fat human in a bright orange prison suit was either less noticeable then a group of humans running and screaming about the place or was less important to their inorganic killers. He started to slow down, panting heavily, continually looking over his shoulder to make sure he was relatively safe. He stopped for a moment, hunched over somewhat, hands on knees, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Wow. He really was out of shape. Regardless, he had to keep moving. He took a few deep breaths then continued at a semi-jogging pace. He had no idea which way he was heading, or where he was, but as long as he headed away from those steel beasts he didn't really care at this point, the only thing he did care about was that he didn't trip over in darkness that they had helped add to the night's already eerie pitch this far out from civilisation.

After what might have been a good twenty minutes he noticed the ground beneath his feet was heading up a steady incline. Groaning, he realised he was just going to have to tolerate it and hope it didn't continue for long or worse, increase its angle. Part of him wanted to sleep, to lye down somewhere, curl up in a chubby ball and have a good nana nap. However, another part of him realised the inherent danger in that. He didn't' know where he was. He could be walking along the remains of a road used by those creatures for all he knew. He could fall asleep and never wake. But he was very tired. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. A phrase one of the prison chaplains had said once in reference to those trying, and wanting, to give up some of the harder drugs on offer out in the real world these days. He had never been a fan of narcotic consumption. Sure, at times in his youth he'd tried a bit of the "whacky tobackey", but that was that. Nothing harder. Some people he'd known had given it a whirl, but everyone of them he'd seen the stuff ruin their lives. Besides, he was of the mind that if you had money, why blow it on something that you snort up your nose or inject into your veins? Seemed so wasteful, what did you have to show for your effort? For your criminal ways and hording? Nothing except a few track marks, maybe a collapsed vein or too, any number of diseases, brain damage or death. Yeah, really good use of swag. He rolled his eyes to himself as he found a new vigour to continue upwards. The cops had grabbed him, the judge had dumped him in that concrete and steel hell hole for so long, he wasn't going to let some stupid robotic arse wipe mosey on in and end his life. He'd been waiting for freedom, to get out of that damn place, now he had it and he'd be damned if he ended up dead, crushed on the underside of a giant metal foot. To hell with them.

To hell with them!

'


End file.
